His English is very good. Setting aside my bowl, I curl my knees under my nightie, wrap my arms around them and hum softly. Lt. and the others are still conversing on the ledge, by the void. It makes me feel more exposed than ever.
Lobsang claps his hands, making me jump.
“Look! I have hypnotized you!” he exclaims. “You have freely accepted my food and eaten it to the last grain of rice, taking for granted what is not actually there!”
Jolted back to his smiling, enigmatic face, I notice that the sixteen other monks are smiling too. Obviously, I’ve missed something here.
“Do you see?” says Lobsang. “You have eaten an illusion, yet it was no less real. Like the garments you choose to wear.”
Now I feel like I’ve been caught stealing. Don’t they know this is humiliating? Lobsang’s smile is mischievous.
“All products of the mind,” he asserts. “You cloak yourself in vulnerability with this sleeping garment.”
I curl into a tighter ball. But Lobsang leans forward, and for a moment, he hums a harmony to the tune I’m making up.
I taper off . . .
“All realities are in your mind,” he says, the Honeycomb’s network of bridges glimmering in his eyes. “Here in the Chamber of Perception, you may garb yourself in whatever you wish, eat whatever you wish, when you wish it. We are gods in our own minds, and we create worlds inside them. Hum?”
His smile is fantastic. I look down at my hands and realize I’m holding a bowl of cereal and a spoon.
“Did you—”
“No.” Lobsang shakes his head. “You did.” Then just like that, he goes back to eating a second bowl of rice.
“He’s perfectly healthy,” Avril whispers over my shoulder, returning. “Teacher Lobsang and his students have learned to disassociate themselves from their waking conscious minds. They don’t have fragmented personalities like the rest of us have.”
Ecstatic, I put aside my cereal bowl. I can’t believe that having a mental disorder is the key to being awake in here. It’s insane. With the exception of maybe Basely, everyone seems pretty normal to me. But then again, looking closer from one person to another along the prominence, I recognize the pieces of whole individuals, which is like looking through a filter. Like looking in a mirror.
“That’s the ticket.” Avril pats my arm. “Anything that helps people fragment their personalities in order to survive the vegetative state of the Honeycomb. But like I said, Lobsang and his students are the real exception. They’re our secret weapon for waking up sleepers. The sleepers have relatively healthy minds, you see, which is why they’re asleep, but if you wake them up?” She snaps her fingers. “They experience sudden fragmentation, which can drive a healthy person mad. They go into denial. We’ve lost people off ledges that way, and once they disappear into the void . . .” She shrugs, cryptically. “We’ve also lost people the other way, too. They’ll go wandering off into their other layers of consciousness outside the Honeycomb and never return. Or get put back to sleep by the Grunge. Lt. says it’s bad for business.”
“It is bad for business,” Lt. remarks, rejoining us with Sebastian, Basely and his motley crew. He nods respectfully to Lobsang, who nods back. “In here, you’re not shunned as crazy or sick. Fractured minds are what’re needed to wake up the human race and reclaim what’s ours. But we can’t do it alone. We need more consciousnesses.”
“Indeed, the fractured of mind need not be trapped.” Lobsang magics away his empty bowl of rice with a trick of his hands. Delighted, I see the faintest hint of a lotus flower hanging in space where the bowl was, before it, too, disappears in a coil of purple smoke. “The fractured of mind can be utilized to see what others cannot and express what is seen in a meaningful way. The only difference between an artist and a schizophrenic is that the artist can express what she sees. Information by itself is fixed, but perception makes that information unique to the individual, in essence changing it. The individual alters reality.”
“Just read the Good Book,” agrees Lt., who’s pretty traditional. “Everyone important in there woulda been diagnosed with something these days. God always did like people with issues. Maybe that’s what it means to be made in his image.”
He paces toward a doorway in the chamber, beyond the campfire, and I’ve just deduced that this is his ledge and campfire, because this is his COP. His doorway isn’t that dissimilar from mine, either.
“Come with me, Janie girl.” He gestures to the doorway. “It’s been agreed. You’re to be briefed on Outer Recon. What say you help us spy on the Grunge?”
I have to ask it before it kills me. “What exactly do the Grunge want?” I step over the threshold. “I mean, if these things invaded our minds, basically stole our bodies overnight, what do they want? I don’t understand.”
Outside the doorway, I plunge into sand and rock up to my ankles. Lt.’s inner sanctuary isn’t a sparkling glen like mine; it’s a desert, a wasteland of shrubs beyond a sea of dunes and a ridgeline of tree-covered mountains that erupt like moldy fangs in a mouth of blue far away in the atmosphere. Afghanistan. This must be where Lt. feels at peace.
There’s something else, too. I’m wearing combat boots, just like Lt.’s.
“Well, well, well.” One of Basely’s personalities, Benjamin, I think (the one in the business suit), points rudely at my feet. “A fast learner.”
I didn’t do anything, I think in stark amazement. I swear!
“Most excellent.” The little boy, Sebastian, rubs his hands. “Lobsang’s teachings are like the falling of small pebbles that create an avalanche.”
Tromping behind, Lt. is clapping. Though, true to his earlier warning, Basely’s expression is one hundred percent sour grapes. Probably because I’m getting all the attention—and I didn’t have to split myself up for it.
I feel a fluttering sensation in my chest and the world goes spinning. Oops . . . I guess the boots have made me anxious. Teacher Lobsang did this, I think? No, I did. Lobsang only encouraged me to do it. But how?
“Calm down, girl. I know you have smarts in your head.” Lt. anchors me by the arm and slips on a set of sunglasses. “You didn’t climb all the way to this COP just because you have a pair. Look at how you’re dressed. You were probably wearing that sleepwear the night the Grunge took us on, right? Practical. Now look at your feet. Adaptable. What makes sense to you probably doesn’t make sense to others, but that’s why you’re awake in the Honeycomb and about 7.9 billion people aren’t.”
He stoops down, chews the butt off a new stogie and draws a maze in the sand with a finger. “Let me put it to you straight and quick. The Grunge, they’re a psionic race. That means they can get into your head. And since you’re not a vegetable like the rest of everyone in the Honeycomb, you have the capacity to adequately react to them invading your mind. Now, the unit at COP Phoenix—those of us with the capability, that is—we go on the offensive. We do reconnaissance into waking consciousness—”
“Our Modus Operandi,” Sebastian contributes, and Lt. shoots him a bullish look.
“And, it’s my belief you’d fit right in.” He takes a pull on his stogie. “But what you need to understand, so that you’re not apprehended, is that the Grunge came for the experience. You say you want to know what they want.” Rising, he flicks his stogie into the sand and stubs it out with the toe of his boot. “We’ve seen it. They wear human bodies like clothing, like skin, in order to experience the physical world. To taste food and drink. To listen to music in waveform instead of through math. To smell nature, progress, and pollution. To enjoy sex. To see through human eyes. What this unit at COP Phoenix is accomplishing is the gathering of intel. The more we know about the Grunge, the more chances we have to discover a weakness and exploit it. We’ve begun by collecting those who are awake in the Honeycomb and establishing COPs.”
“Is that what the bridges are for?” I as
k, thinking of the elaborate network of filigree arches that expand from Lt.’s ledge into the void. “Ways to get to the other COPs?”
“Teacher Lobsang and his students weave them,” Sebastian answers with pride. He’s creating highways in the sand with the heel of his sneaker, all the way from the point where Lt. buried his smoke. “We’ve seen campfires and lights on distant ledges and have heard voices. This is how we found Avril. She made a campfire to signal with. A very clever idea.”
I’m so engrossed, I’ve just now realized I’m humming again and it’s making my feet tingle. The hollow feeling in my stomach has receded—some.
Lt. goes on, “Before the establishment of COP Phoenix, I was sweeping the closest alcoves and found the first survivors. The first awakened minds. Teacher Lobsang and his students were amongst them. They alone are responsible for the bridges. The sheer power of mind they exhibit is phenomenal. And it’s a boon, too, because as we speak, the unit is moving further and further into the Honeycomb, in search of others, via the bridges. The more COPs we establish, the more the human race can reconnect and establish an opposition. Currently, we have fifteen COPs. But it ain’t easy.”
I look Lt. in the eye. “You used to do this in real life,” I tell him, matter-of-fact, “establish COPs.”
Lt. nods slowly and admits, “I was a commissioned officer on a transition team of advisors to the Afghani military.” For a moment, he looks at the mountains. “That billet was training,” then he bores into me, “for this.”
Butterflies collide in my stomach and that tingling feeling expands up my legs. Somehow I feel the same; I can’t explain it. I think I was meant to fight. Designed. Fated. Mom always said I was a leaf on the wind. But none of us in here appear irrational now. No sane person could have ever foreseen this kind of war.
“Basely is the only one of his personalities stable enough to do recon,” Avril whispers to me behind her hand, for good measure, and Basely turns up his nose.
“Soldier! Just look at you!” exclaims Lt., and I do. I look.
Holy freak!
I’m no longer in my nightie. I’m . . . I look like a member of some kind of sci-fi special forces or something. Only practical. None of those high-heeled bimbo boots that flash sex but would kill a girl in combat. Freak! This is real. Flesh-colored synthetic armor, like a second skin. Utility belt. Compact energy weapons and demolitions. Thick gloves with brass knuckles. A camel pack on my back.
I feel my hair. It’s slicked severely to my head in a braided bun.
Mother would approve.
Well, maybe of the function, but not the look—ha!
Basely and Avril are amazed. Sebastian is giggling maniacally into his hand. Even Lt. looks caught off guard, although he’s hiding it behind a smug grin, his sunglasses and the comment: “’Bout time someone projected this look.” With a shriek, Basely’s personality, Jin-Jin, who’s been hovering like a fly in the threshold to the Honeycomb, flees back inside and comes out with the entire COP in tow.
My moment of glory is ruined. They’re staring. Mentally, I claw at the suit, trying to keep it on, trying to force myself not to pop right back into my nightie. “Um, so I suppose you can all do recon?” I wonder out loud.
“Negative.” Lt. shakes his head. Angrily, he signals everyone back inside and only he, Avril, Sebastian and myself remain in his desert, his unconscious mind.
“We’ve gathered that by now, the Grunge have effectively possessed the bodies of every human soul ever born,” he tells me. “But after they invaded through that gate of theirs, from whatever dimension they came from, there were still humans with strong enough minds to contend with them. At least at one point. The Grunge called these people ‘Prize Raiment.’” Lt. spits. “Utter debasement.”
“Teacher Lobsang was one such,” Sebastian clarifies, winking at me as I continue to check myself out. “But he disassociated his mind from his body before it was too late. The same with his students, but they insist that they did not hold out as long as he did.”
“Yep.” Lt. hooks my camel pack on correctly, then thumps me. “Teacher Lobsang tells us that Prize Raiment were hunted, sought after for their strength of mind and will. Those who were caught but couldn’t be broken have all been terminated, and it’s undetermined if there are any left, or if their minds have been, eh, ‘overthrown.’”
Lt. glares in the direction of the harsh sun. It’s very hot in his desert. Just the fact that I can feel the heat is due to far more than my willing suspension of disbelief—I get it now. It’s just like Teacher Lobsang’s rice: I assume. I take for granted. My mind is creating the heat, not the sun. Lt.’s mind is creating the image; I’m just experiencing the effects. Yes!
“Lobsang’s physical body is a Prize Raiment,” Lt. maintains, “so it’s closely guarded and usually possessed by a cadre of Grunge. Makes it damn near impossible for him to do any recon into his own waking consciousness.” He adjusts my utility belt roughly and steps back for a look. “Trust me, we need all the help we can get.”
“None of his students dare to do recon, for the same reasons,” adds Sebastian. “Instead, they are happily weaving the bridges and welcoming newcomers, like you.” He wiggles his brows.
I can’t help myself. I have to ask this one thing—it’s absurd, I know. One of the stupidest questions that can possibly occur to me (crazy, psycho). “But why is everyone speaking English?” I blurt. I mean, I’m thinking Basely, Sebastian and Lobsang all have accents, and sure, English may be the business language of the world, but come on!
With his fingers, Sebastian makes the “Live long and prosper” sign from Star Trek and says, “Universal communicator,” before giggling into a fist.
“Telepathy just works like that.” Avril pats my arm. “Your mind automatically translates what’s being said.”
“But everyone’s lips are moving in sync with the words,” I retort. I know, I’m being a smart ass. What?
“It’s all perception.” Sebastian looks approvingly at my feet.
I do too. I’m hovering about three inches off the ground.
“Now there’s perception,” Lt. muses, and I crash into the sand with a gasp. He bends over me, hand propped on a knee, his silhouette blotting out the sun. “Ever wonder why time goes so slow when you’re feelin’ pain?” he asks me. “At that moment, your adrenaline is pumping. Everything becomes magnified. You’re consciously aware of every little thing. Details fill up your perception from moment to moment and elongate time. Details that were already there, but you wouldn’t have noticed them otherwise, like you’re doing now. That’s perception. It works like your ability to fragment. Like how you created that armor for yourself. Like how you were just floating. We do this in our dreams all the time, but very few people have control over their dreams. Damn, soldier—you’re a quick learner!”
I’m floating again. It must be like what the good doctor said to my mom all that time ago: manipulation. How I can turn a situation on a dime to my advantage. Guess I never figured manipulation was exactly a positive talent.
Pretty freaky.
My feet touch down—gracefully this time.
Lt. pulls another stogie from his vest, and I can see it in his face: he’s ready for my presence on their team.
But what he doesn’t know is how ready I am for this.
Christina, a shy girl in her early twenties with long black hair, hands me an apple tart. She has body dysmorphic disorder (or so I’ve been told), which means that she’s excessively preoccupied with an imagined or minor defect in her physical features. Screw that. She’s the most beautiful person in this ragtag group. One of the most beautiful people I’ve ever seen. You know, if having a fragmented personality affects your state of mind when you’re awake, it’s sure serving its purpose in the Honeycomb. I wonder what all of these people really look like in real life, what they act like. Teacher Lobsang and his stud
ents are probably the only ones who actually equate to “what you see is what you get.”
Right now, the team at COP Phoenix is having dinner. Not that we need to eat. It’s just for the camaraderie and the experience. If the freakin’ Grunge could imagine their physical experiences, they wouldn’t need our bodies as scientific instruments to measure them by.
Freaks.
Lt. has gone off with Basely and Murphy the Short to COP Evergreen on convoy. One of Teacher Lobsang’s students, Chophel, has devised a clever way to tell time in here: If each full breath of the Honeycomb walls can be equated to one minute of time, and the walls undulate in waves, an hour has passed by the time one wave flows out of the darkness of the left of the void, all the way into the right. After twenty-five hours, there is a natural respiratory pause during what would normally be another full wave, so the monks mark this as a day. A twenty-five-hour day.
Lt., Basely and Murphy the Short have followed the time wave over the filigree bridges, into the indigo-blue unknown, and the team at COP Phoenix is keeping track of their departure time. The math involved in their coming and going against the moving waves goes right over my head, but I’ll take Chophel’s word for it.
This is the perfect opportunity for me to return to my house.
Noiselessly, while everyone is engrossed in jovial conversation around the campfire, I slip off the prow of the ledge and scoot along the side of the Honeycomb. I travel beyond the other ledges, all the way back to my own, humming my own marching orders. For the first time, I have a plan. For the first time ever, I have hope.
And I’m not afraid.
The woman in the cell next to mine is still sleeping. My glen is as sparkling as ever when I enter it. I wade through the grass in full battle gear, past the willow on the hill, to my house, where my Mirror Image is begging me not to go in.
Writers of the Future, Volume 28 Page 15
